


let the punishment fit the crime

by intrepidment



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Dominant Mulder, F/M, Playful Scully, Season/Series 07, Seduction, Teasing, UST to RST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidment/pseuds/intrepidment
Summary: In which Scully steals Mulder's clothes, and it really shouldn't take him as long as it does to figure out that she's the culprit.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 35
Kudos: 148
Collections: X-Files Smut Fanfic Exchange (2020)





	let the punishment fit the crime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoseThornhill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseThornhill/gifts).



> Written as part of The X-Files Smut Fanfic Exchange for RoseThornhill who gave the prompt: Dom Mulder! Not hardcore BDSM, but I want Mulder to take charge and be a little rough with Scully.

His Knicks shirt is the first to go missing. 

"Dammit."

"What’s wrong?" Scully asks him. They’re currently out on loan in Kansas for the Violent Crimes Unit who are understaffed, and the case is an easy one, as far as they're concerned; the kind both of them knew would be open-and-shut as soon as they were briefed for it. No chance of stumbling onto an X-File here, which is unfortunate. For him, anyway.

Since Mulder had anticipated this case would take two or three days tops before arriving, he had only packed a single set of his evening clothes, or at least he thought he did, but—

"I can’t find my shirt." He digs deeper into his belongings, moving aside his toiletries and files and books and various other bits and bobs, before deciding to upend the entire contents of his luggage on the floor. He frowns. "It should be here."

He always remembers to pack a shirt when he has to stay overnight at a motel for a case. Mostly, he needs it because Scully and him usually have dinner together in his room when the day is done and talk over the details of the case. 

Like now, for instance.

"Huh." Scully props herself up by her elbows on his bed. Her hair is a little mussed, fine auburn strands sticking up from static, and she runs a hand through it self-consciously, smoothing it down again. An aftereffect of lying down for a brief nap on his bed while he took a shower. 

It hasn’t escaped his notice that this has become a new habit of hers.

Though neither of them have spoken about it, they had marked the beginning of this year with a kiss. A brief kiss that was chaste enough to pass as platonic—whatever _that_ word meant for them—but a kiss, nevertheless. Since then, she’s been more open around him. She comes over to his place regularly during the weekend just to hang out. Her goodbye hugs last a tad longer than usual. Little things that hint at a newfound intimacy. It’s a side to her that she’d previously kept hidden from him.

He can’t remember the last time things between them have been so, so— _nice._ He's not used to nice. It's almost unsettling, how good things have been lately. Any second now, he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, because good things never last.

Not for him.

"Dammit," he says again. 

Scully hoists herself up, and he tries not to watch her as she stretches. He mostly fails; hungrily eyeing the sliver of skin exposed between the edge of her top and her slacks, while she pretends not to notice. "You must’ve left it at home."

"I guess." He doesn’t sound too convinced. "I’ll put on my work shirt." He’s a bit embarrassed, to be honest. The last thing he wants to do is make her uncomfortable, walking around half-naked more than he has to.

But Scully wrinkles her nose at him, as if the mere suggestion offends her. "Mulder, you _just_ washed up. Your work shirt is probably gross from all that running around in the sun we did all day. Put on a bathrobe if you’re so concerned about your virtue."

So this is how they’re choosing to do this, Mulder realises, not unpleasantly. He affects an exaggerated leer. "Scully," he says in a low voice, "it’s not _my_ virtue you should be worried about."

She’s attempting to hide a smile, but he sees it anyway, tucked into the crook of her shoulder. There is a feeling, like molasses churning through his bloodstream, that comes with this sort of banter. He’s warm all over. "Oh? Is that a fact?"

"Yes," he says. "It is."

They look at each other for a long moment, silent and heated, and Scully’s gaze flickers briefly from his bare chest, to the dark thatch of hair leading into the band of his shorts cradling his hips and then, lower.

He can handle the intensity of her stare, he reminds himself. Nothing to see here. Many a night has been spent memorising the details of her expressive face on the rare occasions where she acknowledges the unspoken attraction between them. It’s become a point of pride, even, his ability to control himself around her when she looks at him like that.

He can handle this. Really.

No problem at all.

"Bathrobe," she finally says, looking away, and he agrees. Departs to the bathroom without another word. He takes a deep breath. Splashes his face twice in the sink for good measure. _Not today_ , he tells his reflection in the mirror. Ignores the fact that he’s been telling himself this for years now. 

He finds the bathrobe on a hook behind the door.

"Seriously though, I could’ve sworn I packed my shirt," he tells her when he returns, the belt of his robe cinched tight to hide any unnecessary, ah, _distractions_. He pokes at his emptied luggage, as if he could mentally will it to appear inside. "I really hope I haven’t lost it. It’s one of my favourite shirts, you know."

"So you've told me." Scully is solemn, but the corner of her mouth twitches. Just slightly.

Distracted, he doesn’t notice this.

"Must be an X-File," she says.

* * *

A month goes by after they return home, and a pattern emerges. More clothes go missing. 

"A poltergeist," Mulder declares to her at the office, "I’m being haunted by a poltergeist."

Scully looks up from her desk where she’d been writing up a report. Her expression is what he would describe as fondly exasperated. A patented expression, he knows, reserved just for him. "Mulder, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I’ve lost three shirts so far. _Three._ They’ve all just vanished. Poof." He throws his hands up in the air for added effect. "There’s no other explanation. I’ve somehow conducted a misdeed against a poltergeist who is taking their revenge on me."

Scully scoffs. Forever the sceptic. She returns to her report, jotting down a note, and he assumes that it’s her way of ending the conversation, but then she speaks up again. Her voice is light, casual. "By stealing your clothes?"

He nods, forlorn. "It appears so. This one has a kink, Scully. A big, greedy, expensive one."

There’s a laugh from her for that. "You really believe that a poltergeist is after you?"

"I really do," he responds, reclining back in his chair.

"Not a human. A poltergeist."

He grins. "I tend to go for the most likely scenarios and this one fits the bill, considering that it's happening to me."

"A poltergeist," she says again with more than a hint of amusement. "I can see how you came to that _completely_ plausible explanation."

"See, this is why we’re partners. Our unanimous agreement towards the possibility of the unknown—the glue that will bind us together for life."

She rolls her eyes before scrunching up a piece of paper into a ball and aiming it at him. It flies through the air in a perfect arc and hits him right in the face, bouncing off his forehead. "I suggest you revise that statement as soon as possible."

"Ouch, Scully! That _hurt._ "

* * *

All jokes aside, he _is_ rather chagrined by the strange predicament he has found himself in, through no fault of his own. As a precaution, since he has—unfortunately—become used to his home being ransacked and burgled more than a person should become familiar with in one lifetime, he conducts a methodical inventory of his apartment to see if other things are missing too.

Hours later, ticking off each item from his mental checklist, he concludes that everything appears to be mostly in order. Aside from his clothing, all his important documents are still locked tight in his safe and no other valuables appear to have been taken.

Still, the whole situation is—well. 

Not good. 

To say the least.

He is an Oxford-educated psychologist _._ He is still a goddamn great profiler when he wants to be one. If anyone is able to solve this, it should be him. Yet in spite of all his credentials, and the wealth of experience he has amassed over the years, for the life of him, he cannot figure out what is happening here. There is the possibility of a stalker, but if there was one, they would have made direct contact with him by now, surely. A peeping tom taking action could fit the bill, but they would’ve taken clothes from his laundry before anything else.

He’s confused. Perplexed beyond belief. Maybe a little intrigued as well, because it’s part of his inquisitive nature, his drive to figure out the truth, no matter how outlandish the situation is. Nothing about this makes sense. There’s just no logical reason behind it. 

_Who the hell is stealing all his clothes?_

He has worked on hundreds of X-Files cases of varying scope and complexity and general what-the-fuckery, but he is beginning to think that this may be the one that finally stumps him. Which. 

Jesus.

If it ends up being true, the powers that be at the FBI and beyond who keep screwing him over will have their hypothesis proven: he really _does_ belong in the basement.

* * *

So far, Mulder has lost:

A coat, eight ties, his favourite Knicks shirt, _twelve_ other shirts, three boxers and several pairs of socks. 

At the rate in which his clothes are being pilfered, he’ll need to buy an entire wardrobe of new clothes by winter to replace his missing ones. 

He tells Scully the last part with a great feeling of dejection, and shows her photos of the newly empty spaces in his closet and drawers that he’s taken as evidence. It’s a waste of film, and they both know it. She’s perched on his desk, and when she leans over to look at the photos anyway, he can smell the lingering waft of her perfume. It’s sweet but earthy. There’s no way to describe it except to say that it’s a Scully scent. He loves it; loves _her_ , though this is a topic he has yet to bring up while completely coherent, with neither of them on the verge of death. 

One day though.

Soon. 

"Poor you," she coos at him, patting his cheek sympathetically. She’s humouring him, he knows, but he welcomes it wholeheartedly.

"Poor me," he agrees, turning his head and nuzzling the sharp point of his nose into her palm.

She can’t stop giggling after that, and he joins in with the laughter as well, so at least there’s one positive thing out of this whole fiasco.

* * *

His last casual shirt is gone. What the hell is he supposed to wear when he’s not working now? They’ve taken his most comfortable clothes to lounge in.

He decides that the culprit needs to be punished severely for their crimes against him. 

Of course, there’s also just the small matter of actually _finding_ said culprit.

* * *

Mulder is still in his full work attire when Scully comes over one evening for movie night.

"Why aren’t you undressed?" she demands as soon as he opens the door and she sees what he’s wearing.

There is a beat of silence.

He lets the words settle between them patiently, watches her realise what she’d just said, and the implications behind it. He expresses the full extent of his bemusement with a single raised brow—a technique he learned from her. Scully flushes in return, an alluring bright red, from the high points of her cheeks to the top of her chest which he can see thanks to the deep vee of her teal sweater. 

_Cute,_ he thinks, though he’d never say it aloud lest he incurs her wrath.

After a quick look down the hallway to make sure none of his neighbours heard her, she pushes her way into his apartment.

"What I meant to say," she corrects herself hastily, "is why are you still in your work clothes?"

"My casual clothes are all missing," he says. "These suits are pretty much the only things I have left."

"You only have—?" she stops, flushes darker. He bends his neck down to her, wants to hear the rest of her question, maybe peer down her cleavage a little as well, see how far that red goes, but she changes course. "That’s terrible," she says instead, lamely. 

For some reason, he doesn’t think she sounds that sincere.

Regardless, he straightens up and lets out a sigh. "I don’t know what’s going on," he confesses. "It’s the strangest thing, Scully. I’ve gone through all the possibilities of why someone would want to steal my clothes but I’ve gotten nowhere. Hell, maybe I _do_ have a poltergeist in my home."

"Mulder," she replies after a moment, "are you sure you’ve explored _all_ the possibilities within the realms of reality?"

"What do you—" he snaps his fingers suddenly. "Scully, of course, the Gunmen! They have the keys to my place. It must be them. This is probably their idea of a weird, messed up joke."

Scully worries her teeth at her bottom lip. "Oh. Yes. I guess it’s them. Probably."

"Probably?"

"Mmhm. Probably." She tilts her head and looks up at him innocently. In her hand, she is holding a large handbag that she has often brought to his place as of late. But there is no reason for him to question her about it because she’s never given a reason for him to be suspicious of her motives. "Say, Mulder, can I use your bathroom?"

He blinks at the segue. "Yeah, sure."

Scully hoists the handbag on her shoulder as she heads towards his bedroom, and he doesn’t think to ask why she doesn’t just toss it on his couch. 

He’s too busy pondering how to get back at his so-called friends.

* * *

For Christs' sake, not the Armani suits too. Anything but the Armani suits.

Do they even know how much they _cost_?

* * *

"It’s not us," Frohike assures him.

"We would be _far_ more creative with our pranks," Langly adds, whatever that means. Mulder doesn’t want to know. He has enough on his plate at the moment.

Byers nods in agreement. "We really would."

He groans. These guys were his last hope. "Are you all seriously telling the truth?"

A chorus of _yes_ from the trio makes him drop his head to his knees in his seat. He mumbles something indecipherable. The Gunmen cautiously shuffle closer to him as a huddled group. 

"What was that, Mulder?" Frohike asks him, calm as can be.

He lifts his head. The expression on his face is one of complete and utter despair. "Whoever is responsible for this has stolen all my underwear."

 _"All of them? "_ The other three shout out at once. 

"Aside from the one I was wearing today when the rest got stolen, yeah, all of them."

"This is entirely far too much unnecessary information to process," Langly says with a grimace.

"Sorry," is all he can offer in reply.

"Mulder," Byers pipes up cautiously after a while. "We’re not the _only_ ones who have a copy of the keys to your apartment. There is one other person."

Another person? His forehead crinkles in confusion. Who else has a copy of his keys? There’s only—

He stares at Byers. Byers stares back. He stares harder, narrows his eyes. "No," he sputters. "No way. That’s—impossible. No way. _No way._ "

"What?" Langly asks, confused, out of the loop.

He shakes his head, lets out a sound of pure, unadulterated, disbelief. "There’s no way _Scully_ is responsible for this."

Except.

"It does make sense," Frohike points out to him, echoing his line of thought. "She’s the only other person who has full unfettered access to your apartment. Plus, she knows your work schedule so it would be easy for her to pop into your place during a lunch break."

"I eat lunch with her," he says, weakly.

Langly mutters, "Whipped," under his breath. He makes the wise decision to ignore him.

"Well, she’s at your place all the time anyway, right?" Byers asks. "After work or whatever you guys do in your spare time. Easy access."

He opens his mouth to argue but then.

He thinks about his Knicks shirt, how certain he was that he packed it, how he never did end up finding it at home, _it’s my favourite_ he’d told her once, before, got it for a steal and kept it ever since, fabric made gossamer over time and wear, and then he thinks about Scully and the oversized bag she brings with her to his place that she never used to, and her face whenever he tells her something else is missing from his wardrobe, a little sneaky or naughty, maybe a little guilty as well like she has a secret, like she’s been keeping something from him, but not cancer, no, nothing like that, this is a good kind of secret, the _best_ kind of secret, the kind that involves a bed and a person, two persons, actually but—

"Fuck," he says.

* * *

Now that he's figured out what's going on, her invitation to hang out at her place carries a lot more weight than it usually does.

"I think we deserve a drink tonight," she says casually. It’s a Friday. They spent all day at work completing expense reports. Today should be no different from any other day. And yet. 

His nerves are buzzing around inside of him uncontrollably. Outwardly though, Mulder nods, curt, keeps his tone level with hers.

"I’ll come over at six."

He doesn’t drive home. Instead he circles around Scully’s neighbourhood in Georgetown for the better half of an hour before parking his car in front of her building. His palms are impossibly sweaty when he knocks on her door at six on the dot. 

"Come in," she calls out to him.

Mulder enters and closes the door behind him before turning towards her general direction, but then he stops. Comes to a complete halt. Time freezes—no, scratch that, reality freezes; shatters before his very eyes. He stares. He's not sure if he is awake right now because what he is seeing has to be a figment of his imagination. A dream, surely. A hallucination brought on by delirium.

Scully is wearing his clothes.

Instead of the black suit she had on earlier, she is engulfed in his white dress shirt—one that he didn’t even realise was missing—that has been unbuttoned halfway down her chest, exposing more intentional cleavage than he's ever seen in the combined several years he's known her. When he's finally able to drag his eyes away from her chest to her thighs, he catches a glimpse of his boxers hidden under the shirt, and when he looks down even further, he can see that she is wearing his black socks which have been pulled up loosely almost up to her calves, three sizes too big for her.

"Hey," she says, pretending that everything is normal, pretending that she isn’t his fantasy come to life. She isn't looking at him; too busy pouring out an appropriate amount of wine into the two glasses that she's placed on the dining table. "Take a seat by the couch—I’ll be there in a minute."

He doesn’t listen. Instead, he stands stock still where he is, licking his suddenly dry lips. "Scully," he rasps, "I think I have a new lead on who’s been taking my clothes."

A pause.

Scully meets his gaze.

Slowly, she leans back against the table, one hand resting on the surface while the other picks up a glass of wine. She takes a small sip, maintaining eye contact with him the entire time. He notices that she isn't wearing a bra; her nipples are twin hard points protruding through the flimsy sheer material. He wants to trace them with his tongue, lick and bite them until they're red and sore and swollen, and feel the weight of her breast in his mouth.

It takes a moment before he realises that she's asked him a question. 

He clears his throat. "What was that?"

There's something resembling a satisfied smirk on her face. "I said: You mean it’s not the Gunmen?"

He shakes his head. "No, it's not them. This is an inside job from within the FBI."

"The FBI? That sounds serious."

He takes a step towards her. "It is."

Scully sets down her glass and fiddles idly with the collar of her— _his_ —shirt until it slips and slides tantalisingly off one shoulder. This moment, right here, is the closest he's ever come to believing in a god. "Is it anyone I know?"

Another step. "Yeah. You know them."

She raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me it's Skinner."

He huffs out a laugh. He loves her. He loves her so, so much. "It's not Skinner. Keep guessing—you're on the right track."

He's enjoying himself. _So this is what it's like to have fun_ , he realises. 

"Give me a clue, at least," she says, as if she needs one.

He plays along anyway. "Well, I see this person every day."

"Every day? That brings down the suspect pool by a lot. You're not exactly known for socialising with our fellow peers—"

"No, I can't say that I am."

"—and this person, they would need to know you pretty well to be able to pull this off, wouldn't they?"

"Yes. They would."

"Hm. And you've already said that isn't Skinner. I also doubt that it's the blonde girl from accounting, who keeps calling you upstairs with excuses about incorrect paperwork so she can flirt with you."

Mulder makes a noise of assent. He is close enough now that he's able to grasp the edge of the table with both hands and cage her in his arms. He bends down, whispers in her ear, "Anyone else come to mind?"

She shivers. He can hear her breathing stutter at his neck; a staccato sound of pent-up frustration. "I guess—I guess your partner could be the one behind it."

"It does seem like she's the most likely suspect at the moment." He rolls up his sleeves and while she zeroes in at the sight of his bare forearms, he lifts her onto the table effortlessly. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Mulder!" she giggles. Her legs are dangling well above the floor.

"Scully," he says, and her laughter ceases. He rests both his hands on her kneecaps. She gives him a long, considering look before letting them fall open. _Atta girl_. He steps into the cradle of her thighs. "Wouldn't you agree?" he repeats at her.

She reaches out to him, skims his jawline with light fingertips. "I agree," she says softly.

They're both breathing unevenly now, the sound positively indecent in the otherwise silent apartment. "I think I'll need to take her into questioning," he says in a voice like gravel, like sandpaper. "Any recommendations on how I should proceed?"

Her thighs trap his upper body as she hooks her ankles behind him, drawing him in, and closing the final inches of distance between them. He is acutely aware that there are only a few layers of clothing separating them. _His_ clothes. Everything she's wearing is his. All his. He can't believe they're actually doing this. For once, he's the bastard with good luck on his side.

He thumbs at her cheekbone, watches her lashes flutter close at the touch. When she opens them again, he can see her pupils are blown wide with arousal, the usual blue a dark ring in the peripheral.

"Be thorough," is all she says.

Mulder kisses her.

* * *

The kiss is desperate, needy, seven years of sexual tension finally coming to a boiling point. His mouth slants over hers and she sighs, sliding her arms around his neck as she tangles her fingers into his hair. It hurts, how harshly she tugs at the strands, but the pain is welcome, reminds him that this is real and not a dream.

Finally. _Finally._ He's wanted this for so damn long. He can't remember a time ever not wanting this.

He pries at her jaw in an attempt to get closer—closer than he already is—but she's already one step ahead of him, licking her way inside his mouth as if she's trying to memorise it with her tongue. The hard line of his erection juts against her warm centre, and he rocks his hips into her once, twice, a dirty facsimile of fucking with their clothes still on. Scully moans, and he steals the sound as his own, drops one hand to her hip and grips it hard enough to leave a mark. He hopes it does; hopes it'll leave a bruise that she'll remember for days and weeks and months, long after they've disappeared.

Eventually, breathing becomes a necessity again and he breaks away from her mouth, but he doesn't stray too far. He places open-mouthed kisses along her jawline, and bites gently and then not-so-gently, into the soft flesh of her neck.

"Mulder," Scully keens, thrashing her head back. He likes it, the way she says his name. He wants to hear it again. He gets his wish when he tweaks her nipple between his forefinger and thumb, hard, and the two syllables of his name leave her mouth in a whimper. "God, Mulder."

"Just Mulder is fine," he says, and she's still coherent enough to roll her eyes at him. But then she's rolling her eyes for an entirely different reason when his hand slips under the elastic of the boxers she's wearing. "No underwear?"

She squirms, trying to get him to touch her where she wants most. "Did you seriously expect me to double up?"

"Touché," he responds, and cups the entirety of her, pressing two fingers into her folds. She's wet, and he spreads around the wetness generously, explores every nook and crevice that he can touch. When his fingers finally circle her swollen clit, he rubs it carefully, testing her sensitivity. Immediately, Scully bucks in his hand with a muffled cry and clenches around him.

_Ah, very sensitive then._

He does it again, less carefully. And then again. He's so focused on the prospect of getting her off, he doesn't notice her hand making its way down his chest, until it's squeezing his cock over his trousers. He swears, jerking under her touch, but keeps his fingers moving inside her. 

"Inside me," she gasps out to him.

"Not yet," he grunts back.

Scully ignores him and fumbles with the zip of his trousers, trying to pull it down. She squeezes his cock again, possessive. He wants to see her come first though, and it's this thought that propels him to slam her hand back onto the table.

" _No_ ," he growls, his grip a shackle around her wrist. All the while, his slick fingers slip in and out of her at a faster pace.

Her inner muscles tighten on his fingers and she comes with a frantic, surprised intake of air. She was already close, but he knows at once that it was his voice, and the hand on her wrist, that brought her over the edge.

What just transpired is...surprising. But also not. He'd had an inkling about this side of her for a while now, drawn from circumstantial knowledge he's accumulated about her.

As Scully regains her breath, Mulder licks the taste of her from his fingers thoughtfully. 

An idea comes to him. It's a good idea—as all his ideas often are—though Scully would probably disagree with this claim.

She'll like this one though. 

He'll make sure of it.

Mulder goes against all his basic instincts and takes a step back from Scully; an act made harder by her soft whine as she tries to hold onto him. She stops though, when she sees him loosen his tie, and pull it over his head.

"Take off the shirt," he tells her. The tone of his voice is not one to be argued with.

Both of them understand the underlying message without him saying it: if you follow this order, be prepared to follow the others. 

There is a moment, but then Scully nods. Unbuttons the shirt with her eyes never leaving his. When she gets to the final button and starts to shrug out of the shirt, he places both his hands on her shoulders, and slips it off her himself.

She lets him.

Once the shirt is fully removed, a bunched up piece of fabric in his hand, he tosses it aside. They watch as it flutters uselessly onto the floor with a gentle thump.

Completely bare above the waist, Scully makes a move to shimmy out of the boxers as well, but Mulder shakes his head.

"Later," he promises. 

She bites her lip at him, fidgeting restlessly in her seat. "What are you—" she begins, then gasps, when he suddenly leans forward and pulls both her wrists behind her, keeping them in place using his tie.

He waits to see if she will protest, but when she simply remains still and peers up at him with heavy lids—anticipating his next move—he forms a knot with the tie, not tight enough to hurt, but just enough to restrain her.

"You've had your fun these past few months," he says. "It's my turn now."

* * *

He starts off with another kiss. His palm is a cradle for her chin, controlling the depth and angle of the kiss. He kisses her slowly, languidly, a rigorous exploration of her mouth. Seconds pass. Minutes. He's harder than he's ever been in his life, his cock begging to be released from their confines, but he perseveres through it. He's always been a glutton for self-punishment, after all. 

Scully, on the other hand, makes an impatient sound. She's caught on to what he's doing: teasing her by withholding himself.

He draws away to remind her, "My turn," then kisses her again.

Without the use of her arms, she is helpless to his ministrations, her only respite found in wrapping her legs around him and grinding desperately against his front. He allows a few glorious rolls of her hips to ease the throbbing of his erection, but then he nudges her back, and releases her mouth from his.

"Lie down," he says, moving the wine bottle and glasses behind her to the side.

She does, sliding onto her back carefully. Her tied wrists are above her head and hanging off the table. "Mulder?" she says, once she's laid completely flat. Nervous now that he is no longer in her line of sight.

"Don't worry, I'm here."

He hovers over the bracket between her legs and holds her hips, dragging him closer to him. Scully startles at the motion. He soothes her by massaging her hipbones in steady, sure movements. She relaxes. He makes his way up—strokes her stomach, her ribs. When his thumbs brush against the underside of her breasts, she quivers.

He plucks at her right nipple, rolls it under his fingers. Watches as it becomes a taut, stiff peak.

"I'm going to take such good care of you," he tells her roughly. "Do you believe me?"

Her mouth moves, but no sounds come out. 

"What was that?" He licks his fingers, the ones that were inside her earlier, and pinches her nipple.

" _Yes_ ," the word bursts out of her in one explosive breath. "Yes, I believe you."

"Good girl," he says, and takes her left breast into his mouth. He sucks and nibbles and bites, saliva pooling in his mouth as his other hand pinches and pulls at the opposite breast.

Scully arches into his touch, panting sounds at the back of throat. "Oh my god, oh my god," she chants, music to his ears, and he leaves bite marks all over her breast and sucks her nipple into his mouth again, the nub a shard in his mouth with how hard it is and—

He pulls away. "Why'd you do it?"

Scully's eyes, which were previously closed, open in confusion. "What?"

"My clothes," he elaborates. "Why'd you take them?"

She looks dazed. "You're seriously asking this _now_?"

The breast that was in his mouth is glistening with his saliva. He kneads it for a moment then lets go, watching it jiggle slightly. "Think of it this way: For every truth you tell me, I will," he dips his head down to her stomach, "reward," licks the skin above her belly button, "you," drags his tongue to a path up to her sternum. 

"Jesus, Mulder," Scully says under her breath.

"So?" He's waiting. He blows on her nipple, lightly. Scully lets out a soft groan.

She closes her eyes once more. "I took the Knicks shirt because I wanted it for myself but watching your reaction made me—" she cuts herself off with a gasp.

His mouth is on her again, on the opposite side this time. "Keep going," he mumbles against her breast. His saliva is leaving a mess _everywhere,_ painting her body with his DNA. He loves it. From the way Scully can't stop shuddering, she loves it too. 

"—made me want to do it again. So I did. I wanted to see how far I could go. I wanted to get your attention," she finishes with a plea, "Mulder, touch me."

"I'm already touching you." To demonstrate, he squeezes her hip and moves to bite at her clavicle, delighting himself with her moan.

"I need more," her voice drops to a whisper. _"Please."_

He lifts himself up. "So greedy. More? More how? More here?" He touches the column of her neck, fresh love bites already emerging. He doubts they'll fade anytime soon. She'll have to find a way to cover it up on Monday. 

Scully shakes her head.

"Here?" He palms the underside of her thigh.

"Almost there, Mulder. Please."

"Oh, here then." He cups her mound through the boxers, feels the dampness of her seeping through.

The abruptness of the action makes Scully thrash around wildly, kicking out her foot from behind him. "Fuck. Oh, fuck."

He presses his fingers into her, harder, deeper. He can feel her pulsing through the material. "Did you wear my clothes around the apartment? Lie in your bed with my Knicks shirt on and make yourself come?"

"I—oh my god, yes. _Yes._ "

"Did you enjoy it, Scully? Did you enjoy creating your very own X-File for me to work on?"

"I enjoyed it—fuck _._ More, please. I can't—Mulder," she's incoherent, drunk on lust. Drunk on _him._

In one move, Mulder drops to a half-crouch and yanks down the boxers she's wearing, along with the socks. He pushes her thighs up on the table and then pries them apart so she's completely exposed, pink flesh wet and trembling before him.

"You'll enjoy this too," he says, before feasting on her cunt.

Scully lets out a loud cry, her thighs automatically trying to clamp over his head, but he lays his hands on either side of her inner thighs, keeping her open. She's so wet, she's dripping onto the dining table. His tongue cleans up the mess, laps out to taste everything she offers him. It occurs to him that she'll never be able to sit here again without the thought of him eating her out on it, and the thought pleases him greatly, makes him work even harder. The table creaks with the force of his effort. He brings her right to the edge, her clit tight on his tongue, before he pulls back.

A strangled sound of dismay escapes her. 

"No, _no._ Mulder, come back here this instant." Scully manages to rise into sitting position just in time to see him remove his belt and trousers. His cock is in desperate need of attention; hard and slick with precum against his stomach. He gives it a firm stroke, watches her watch him as he does it. 

"Tell me what you want, Scully."

"You," she says. She spreads her legs, an invitation, her inner thighs visibly wet and sticky. 

His throat goes dry at that, but he reminds himself to stay focused. He strokes himself again. He wants her to beg for it. "Be more specific."

She looks a little flustered, but then her face changes, becomes determined. It's the same expression she wears when she's arguing with him about a case. Never one to back down from a challenge, his Scully. "I want you inside me."

"My cock," he corrects her. "You want my cock inside you."

She doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Say it," he orders.

She licks her lips before saying the words, slowly and deliberately. "I want your cock inside me."

He pounces.

Without warning, he pushes her back onto the table. Once she's down, he positions himself on top of her and slides his cock over her folds with agonizingly slow movements. Scully shudders underneath him. He does it over and over again, lubricating himself with her. Scully's hair is a mess as she twists this way and that.

They're both panting, breathless, by the time he presses the head of his cock at her entrance.

"You've caused me a great deal of grief, you know," he says as casually as he can while he's hard, and prodding at her wet cunt. "I've been going mad, accusing innocent bystanders of your crimes. I think you owe me an apology."

"Are you kidding me?" Scully snaps.

"Nope," he says with a vicious grin. "Go on, Scully. Say sorry before I fuck you."

She groans, her head falling back on the table. "Fine. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? Send an email to the Gunmen. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry. Now, for the love of god, can you please just— _oh!_ "

He enters her.

It takes a while for her to adjust to his girth but once she does, he starts a hard and fast rhythm. Now that the games are all over and they've both given in, he fucks her with all that he has, making her feel every inch of him as he pumps in and out of her. He revels in the obscene wet slapping sounds from where they're joined, and how her hips eagerly meet his every thrust. "Such a good girl, Scully," he croons, "I'm right, aren't I? You're a good girl, _my_ good girl. Tell me I'm right, Scully."

"Yes, you're right. I'm good—I'm yours." It's clear that she doesn't even know what she's saying.

In the distance, there is a crash and the sound of something shattering and _fuck_ , the wine, the glasses—he completely forgotten about that—but he can't bring himself to care, not now, not when Scully is breathless and sobbing under him.

"Fuck, Mulder, I'm close—I'm so, so close."

He wedges his fingers inside her, circles her clit round and round. "C'mon baby, you can do it, c'mon," With his other hand, he grips the flesh of her ass, hoists her up and gets one of her legs over his shoulder. "Come, Scully. _Come._ "

A gush of wetness greets him. He holds her through her orgasm, rubs and pinches her clit until she shivers, over-sensitised, and he pulls them back out. Goes back to pounding into her, chasing his own release while listening to her cry out his name repeatedly in half-formed gasps.

"Mulder, Mulder _Mulder._ "

Three or four more pumps and he's coming in thick, full spurts inside her. They both moan at the feeling of his cum inside her. "Jesus, fuck. Scully, my god." He collapses on top of her, trying to steady his breathing.

It takes a while, but then he remembers to undo the tie still restraining her. 

Finally free, Scully stretches her arms before threading her fingers into his hair, and patting his head. "Wow. That was—very nice."

"Just very nice?" he teases. "You want to go again?"

She hums tiredly. "Ask me in the morning."

Once they've recovered enough to move, Mulder carries her to the bedroom, mindful of the mess on the floor. He finds his Knicks shirt under one of the pillows, and makes a note to get her to model in it for him later. Beside him, Scully snuggles into his neck, throwing a leg over his hip.

Just before sleep overcomes them both though, she reminds him of one last thing. 

"All your clothes are at my place now—you won't need to go home for a while."

He chuckles. Draws her closer into his arms.

He's content.


End file.
